


Renewed in Purpose

by Laylah



Category: Star Ocean: The Last Hope
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Community: oddible, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-07
Updated: 2010-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-08 18:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Where are you from?" Arumat asks.</p><p>"Earth," Crowe says. "It's okay if you haven't heard of it. We're pretty new to space travel."</p><p>"If you can get me off this planet, I don't care how new you are," Arumat says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Renewed in Purpose

The rain spits down, pattering against the hide roof of the tent. Arumat wonders if it ever stops. It doesn't seem to have, in the long smear of days since he crashed on this planet. He's starting to lose track of how long it's been exactly -- the days are almost all the same, rain and bleak grayness and the fights his...hosts...expect him to participate in almost every night. He marks time by the nights when the village doesn't gather around the fighting pit, since they come up at regular intervals. Five nights of fighting, then one where the fires don't get lit and instead the villagers spend the evening gathered around the monolith on the hill at the far end of the village, singing something that's likely a hymn.

That _ought_ to be Arumat's chance to escape, but for a primitive species his captors are remarkably good at caging him. He towers over them, and even without his weapons he could -- and does -- fight off any one or two of them, but when they want him to go somewhere they always try to herd him in a group, and they're quick to use cudgels or spears for encouragement if he doesn't cooperate fast enough. When they're not making him fight, they keep him both caged and shackled, as if he's a wild animal. With his translator taken -- and broken, he's pretty sure; they couldn't have known what to do with the delicate pieces -- he can't even argue. They certainly aren't trying to teach him _their_ tongue.

Arumat rolls over, shackles clinking as he wraps his arms around his middle. He's hungry -- he's always hungry, like his captors don't realize how much food he needs, between his size and his body's augmentations. Or like they're starving him on purpose. His old scars ache, and his newer wounds throb in time with his heartbeat. None of them are severe, but he's certainly not getting the treatment he'd need to heal.

He's going to die here. By now it seems pretty clear it's just a matter of time. It might have been a mercy to just die in the explosion that took his ship, or the crash that brought his escape pod down. Anything faster than this.

There's noise from outside, his captors yelling to each other in their rasping, snarling language. Arumat sits up, watching the tent flap warily; when it opens, he still flinches at the light. It's not really bright, still raining, but it's a hell of a lot brighter out there than in here.

The one who's responsible for him comes strutting in, brandishing the key to the cage; his backup waits at the tent entrance with their spears.

"I want food," Arumat tells them. Still not even a hint of understanding, no curiosity -- either they don't realize he can communicate or they've decided they aren't interested in anything he could say.

His jailer opens the cage and Arumat crawls out of it without waiting for the spearmen to come prod him. He doesn't have the energy to fight today.

Something is definitely going on; the village is busy when he gets outside the tent, its people chattering to each other as they gather near the fighting pit. Mud splashes under Arumat's boots as he gets herded over there. He can't remember a time when they took him out to fight before dark.

When he gets to the pit, he thinks he can see why -- the village has a visitor, a tall figure wrapped in a black cloak and hood. Arumat narrows his eyes. The visitor is close to his own height, so probably not the same race as the villagers, and that cloak is clearly some kind of synthetic material. He could be a rogue from anywhere in known space -- it happens every so often, some outlaw choosing to 'retire' to an undeveloped planet where his advanced technology will make him a terrifying sorcerer or a petty god. The dim light and the hood hide his face, but the visitor seems to be watching as Arumat is prodded into the pit.

"Here for some entertainment?" Arumat demands, and one of his guards prods him with a spear. He snarls.

The locals say something to their visitor, who seems to have to consider it for a minute before he shakes his head. It looks like that's a relief for the villagers -- Arumat might not be able to parse their language, but their behaviors are ordinary enough. Right now, the visitor has just reassured them of something important.

Growling from the other end of the pit reminds him he has more immediate things to worry about. He keeps his eyes on the far entrance as his own keepers release his shackles. The animal handlers have found something else to set against him -- something he hasn't seen before, either; this isn't some overgrown wolf or lurching sentient plant. It looks almost as humanoid as his captors, but where they're stocky and gray-toned, this one is lean, green-scaled. Its eyes are bright, and it stares fixedly at him as it's brought into the pit. Not a person, Arumat tells himself. He can't communicate with it and he doesn't have to feel sorry for it.

When the handlers release it, the lizard creature drops to all fours and scuttles toward him. Arumat dodges back from its first lunge -- he can feel how sluggish he's become, even if it's still not enough to cost him a fight. He should just let this _end_, stop trying, but his pride won't let him do that -- especially in front of the visitor. The creature swipes at him, opens up a shallow set of gashes across his blocking arm.

If he won't throw the fight, the other choice is to finish it. Arumat takes the offensive, kicking out and knocking the thing into the air. Two quick strikes tear up his hands but cripple the creature's momentum, savaging its joints. He kicks again, forcing it to the ground, and brings his bootheel down on the nape of its neck. It only thrashes once.

Arumat drops to one knee, trying to catch his breath, and the guards rush to surround him. They're wide-eyed, their teeth bared; they must not have realized how dangerous he still was. He looks up toward the audience ringing the pit above.

The visitor holds up one gloved hand. "I've seen enough," he says.

The words sound like perfect, unaccented Eldarian to Arumat's ears, but the villagers respond like they understand, too. He's definitely from off-world somewhere, if he has a universal translator.

"I know you understand me," Arumat calls up to him, struggling to his feet. "Talk to these people, damnit! Tell them --"

Something hits him in the back of the head, and the world goes black.

* *

The ache in the back of Arumat's skull wakes him. It's pitch black, but from the smell of wet straw and raw filth he'd guess he's back in the cage. He reaches out, shackles clinking, and finds the bars by touch. The heel of his hand throbs, scraped raw, fresher than the other pains still nagging at him.

He sits up, and his stomach growls a complaint. Usually they feed him after the fight is over. He feels along the floor of the cage, near the bars, to see if they've left him anything.

Nothing. Arumat curses. They must have been angry that he tried to talk to the stranger -- and for all he knows, the stranger only encouraged them. He won't last much longer if they're going to start skipping the few meals he gets.

He lies back down, stretching out as much as the cage will allow, but he's not optimistic about getting back to sleep. By now he's had just enough rest for the hunger and the pain to distract him again.

It sounds like the rain has nearly stopped in the night, but the wind has kicked up, tugging at the flaps of the tent and even stirring the air inside on occasion. The soft thud outside could just be the wind knocking something over, but it's followed by the rustle of the tent flap opening, a sudden breath of fresh air. Arumat strains to pick out shapes in the darkness, staring.

There's a soft _click_, and a tiny lantern comes to life in the stranger's hand. "Are you all right?" he says.

"You're willing to talk to me now, huh," Arumat says.

"I'm sorry about earlier," the stranger says. "I didn't realize what they wanted to show me until it was too late to stop it."

Arumat shakes his head. That's not the most important thing right now anyway. "What do you want?" he says.

"That was your escape pod back in the woods, wasn't it?" the stranger says. "I set down to search for survivors." He pushes back his hood. "Crowe F. Almedio, of the SRF Aquila."

"Arumat P. Thanatos, Eldarian Thirteenth Armored Division," Arumat says automatically. Crowe is young, or at least looks it; his hair is red, his pupils round, his ears oddly small. His features are unfamiliar -- almost normal but not quite, the way the people of so many planets are. "Where are you from?" Arumat asks.

"Earth," Crowe says. "It's okay if you haven't heard of it. We're pretty new to space travel."

"If you can get me off this planet, I don't care how new you are," Arumat says.

Crowe smiles briefly. "Fair enough," he says. He reaches under his cloak. "Not a lot of room to maneuver in here -- can you get clear of the cage door as much as possible?"

Arumat crawls back, away from the bars. Crowe produces a light blade and switches it on -- it's a combat model, the activated blade bright red and as long as Arumat's arm. He splits the lock on the cage door with one swing of the blade, and the air smells sharply of hot metal. Arumat breathes deeply, trying to keep his composure. He's so close.

"Let's get out of here," Crowe says, pulling the door open.

"Just what I wanted to hear," Arumat says. He crawls out of the cage and stands up. It looks like he's a little taller than Crowe, but they both have to stoop in the cramped space of the tent. "How about these?" Arumat asks as he holds up his shackled hands.

Crowe frowns. "I'd hate to take your hand off by accident," he says. "I can take care of the chains, but I think the cuffs should wait until we get back to my ship and have more precise equipment."

"Do it," Arumat says. He's in no position to argue.

The blade flickers on again and the chain between Arumat's hands drops away, hitting the dirt floor with a satisfying thud. "Right," Crowe says. "Better?"

Arumat nods. "Much," he says. His hands feel so free, with that weight gone. He rolls his shoulders, but stops abruptly when he feels a scrape on his back threatening to open back up.

"Here," Crowe says, shrugging off the black cloak and holding it out to Arumat. "It's going to be a long walk back to my ship."

"I'm fine," Arumat says, even though he isn't.

Crowe shakes his head. "Bullshit," he says matter-of-factly. "You've been beaten and starved by these people for how long? Your health is bound to be more precarious than mine." When Arumat hesitates, trying to find a good way to argue, Crowe adds, "Besides, you're so white you practically glow in the dark. If they try to follow us, you'll be easy to pick out in the forest."

"You're going to keep arguing until I give in, aren't you," Arumat says.

"My mission on this planet is to save the survivor of that crash," Crowe says, looking him in the eye steadily. "I'm going to do what it takes to see that mission through."

Arumat takes the cloak. "How far to your ship?" he asks.

"We set down near the crash site," Crowe says, "so I'm afraid it's a bit of a hike."

"Better get started, then," Arumat says. He slips the cloak on and raises the hood.

Crowe nods, shuts off his lantern, and opens the tent flap.

It takes a few seconds for Arumat's eyes to adjust, but there _is_ light outside, even if it's faint -- the clouds are patchy, and between them he can see the thin sliver of one of this planet's moons, and beyond that the distant twinkle of the great star ocean. It's never been such a welcome sight.

Crowe leads the way out of the village, not toward the road that leads past the monolith but into the conifer forest on the other side. The trees grow thinly, this close to the village; most likely the villagers harvest the forest for firewood. The sparse cover makes it easier to see their way, and they travel in silence.

Arumat starts to feel the exertion much too quickly; the time he spent in the cage has eroded his stamina. He grits his teeth and keeps moving. The more distance they can put between themselves and the village, the better. Granted, with Crowe's light blade their odds would be much better -- Arumat probably wouldn't have been captured in the first place if his scythe hadn't been rendered inoperable in the crash -- but it seems better not to risk it.

How pathetic has he become, to shrink from such a petty battle?

Eventually, the rain starts to fall again. Their already limited visibility drops further. "Do you think we can risk the lantern?" Crowe asks.

"Don't ask me," Arumat says. "Can you fight them off if they track us?"

Crowe takes a sharp breath. It's too dark for Arumat to read his expression. "If I have to," he says.

He turns on his lantern, shining it ahead of them, and they march on. Arumat's legs feel heavy, and his wounds ache. The rain falling through the lantern beam is hypnotic to watch, endlessly repeating, pattering down ahead of them. Arumat watches it blearily, putting one foot in front of the other. Soon this will be over.

He stumbles, and mud splashes as he drops to one knee.

"Arumat," Crowe says sharply, turning the lantern toward him. "Are you -- I'm sorry, that's a stupid question. What do you need?"

"Food," Arumat says mechanically. "Medicine. Sleep."

"Of course," Crowe says. "I'm sorry. We should have stopped earlier." He turns the lantern again, seeking through the dark. "There's a rock formation just a little further on, if you can make it that far."

"Someplace defensible," Arumat says. He fights his way back to his feet. "Let's go."

He follows Crowe to the rock formation -- a pile of crumbly, sandstone boulders mostly covered in moss -- and lets Crowe help him up into a little half-concealed hollow they've made. It's not completely dry, but it's less drenched than the ground, and the rock breaks the wind pretty well. Crowe turns up the lantern to a brighter setting and puts it down beside them. "Here," he says, digging a foil packet out of one of his pockets. "Field rations. They taste a little like crap, but --"

"Doesn't matter," Arumat says, taking the packet and ripping it open. His hands are shaking. "We're not on a picnic."

The stuff in the packet is compressed into one solid, gummy bar; Arumat barely tastes it as he bolts it down. His stomach rolls over uncomfortably, but he breathes through the nausea, and it settles down after a minute.

"Another?" Crowe says. Arumat nods.

After the second one, he's pretty sure he shouldn't risk a third. That's already got to be more protein than he's had at one sitting since he was captured in the first place. He takes the canteen Crowe passes him, drinks as slowly as he can, passes it back.

"I have a few berries, if you think that'd be a good idea," Crowe says.

Arumat thinks about it for a minute, taking stock. "Probably not," he says. Force healing wounds is dangerous when the injured person doesn't have enough caloric reserves to provide the energy, and after thirty-odd days in the cage his reserves are pretty much gone. "None of this stuff is life-threatening. It'll heal on its own now that I'm out of there."

Crowe nods. "Thought you might say that," he says. "You should let me wrap them up for you, at least."

"Thought _you_ might say _that_," Arumat says. "You going to get stubborn again if I tell you it's fine?"

"Probably," Crowe says. "You want to make me work for it?"

Arumat takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and decides to trust the instinct that's telling him to relax. Crowe is a good soldier, practical, direct. It's all right to let him take point for now. "Not this time," Arumat says. He unfastens the cloak and pushes it off his shoulders.

"Thanks," Crowe says. He strips off his gloves and produces a roll of gauze and a bubble pack that Arumat assumes is antiseptic.

His military provides good training in first aid, Arumat decides. Crowe moves quickly but without hurrying, rinsing each of Arumat's scrapes and cuts with the antiseptic and binding them up. "This one's tender?" he says at one point, his fingertips pressing beside a raw spot on Arumat's upper back.

Arumat nods. "It looks bad?" he says.

"It's inflamed, yeah," Crowe says. "Honestly, though, given the conditions they were keeping you in, it's a miracle these aren't worse."

"No miracle," Arumat says. "I've had some augmentation work done. I'm pretty tough to kill."

Crowe pauses in the middle of examining a gash on Arumat's thigh, glancing up curiously. "Augmentation work?"

"Long story," Arumat says. He doesn't want to get into it, definitely not here and now.

"Maybe we can trade long stories sometime," Crowe says, and goes back to bandaging Arumat's wounds.

Arumat opens his mouth to ask what Crowe's long story is about, since he almost makes it sound like he's modified, too -- and then stops himself just in time. They're allies for now and he's grateful for the rescue, but that's no reason to make it personal. "Maybe," he says instead.

Crowe finishes patching him up and then sits down on the rock beside him, leaning back against it.

"We should keep going," Arumat says.

"We will," Crowe says, nodding. "In just a few minutes. I want to give those rations a little more time to settle. And maybe have one myself."

Arumat pulls the cloak back over his shoulders. He feels a lot warmer with it on. "You're doing it again."

"Oh yeah?" Crowe says. He digs out a ration bar. "What's 'it'?"

Coddling him, Arumat thinks, but that's going to sound ridiculous with the shape he's in. "Coming up with extra justifications for everything," he says.

Crowe shrugs. "I'm used to dealing with pretty stubborn guys," he says through a mouthful of ration. "Never hurts to have an extra line of defense ready."

"I see," Arumat says. He leans back against the rock and closes his eyes. "Let me know when you're ready to move on, then."

"Will do," Crowe says.

The next thing Arumat's aware of is a hand on his shoulder, shaking. "Arumat. You ready?"

He's reaching back for his scythe by the time he wakes up enough to remember it won't be there. He opens his eyes as the rest of the pieces fall into place, squinting through misty gray dawn at Crowe. "You let me _sleep_ out here?" he says.

"Hey, the fact that you _could_ sleep out here made it pretty clear you needed to," Crowe says.

Arumat sits up straighter, and winces at all the muscles in his back that feel like they've fused into each other. "Point," he says. "Your crew must wonder where you are."

"I've been in touch," Crowe answers. Not correcting the assertion that they're his, Arumat notes. "They should be ready to lift off when we get there."

"You've thought of everything," Arumat says. He wants to be irritated by that, but he can't help finding it comforting. "Let's go."

There's enough light now not to bother with the lantern. The forest is all muted colors, gray and dark green, and the bright red of Crowe's hair is vivid by contrast. Arumat follows him along a narrow game trail that winds slowly uphill through the trees. The terrain seems almost familiar -- they can't be too far off now.

It's too easy, of course. They come to the peak of a slope, the trees thinning around a scatter of more sandstone boulders. Something scrapes on the stone, and Arumat hears the hiss of a drawn breath.

"Look out!" he calls.

Crowe doesn't hesitate, dives left as Arumat dives right, and the monster's pounce misses both of them. It bellows, tail lashing, and turns toward Arumat. It looks like a bigger, meaner version of the last thing he fought in the pit -- scaled, bulky, a ridge of spikes down its back and its eyes fiery orange. The little one was easy enough to handle with no weapon, but this one -- Arumat backs away slowly, trying to keep his footing so he can dodge its next charge.

Crowe moves before it does, swiping at it with his light blade. The monster snarls, rearing up and turning toward him. "That's right," he says. "Over here, big boy." He feints with the blade, keeping its attention. "Arumat, catch!"

His throw is wild, but Arumat grabs the prize anyway -- another light blade, in the same style. He flips it on. "Thanks," he says.

"Let me draw its attacks," Crowe answers. "I've got armor."

Arumat grins. "Don't waste your breath justifying it -- just do it!"

The monster's hide is tough; finding a weak spot won't be easy. Arumat circles behind it, letting Crowe's flashy sword work keep it angry and distracted. He tries for a strike to its hip joint, but the plates of its scales overlap too smoothly for him to do much damage. The backlash of its tail nearly knocks him off his feet.

Everything has a weak point _somewhere_. Arumat tries to assess his options. Using symbology isn't easy when he's already tired, but if it only takes one shot --

He stretches out one hand toward the monster, calling up the symbol in his mind, concentrating until its starts to take shape. His nerves burn with the effort. "Rise up," he murmurs under his breath, and the rock responds.

Stones erupt beneath the monster's belly, throwing it into the air. It scrabbles for purchase on nothing, twisting, and lands on its back when it falls. Crowe's faster off the mark but Arumat's right behind him, and they both drive their blades into the creature's underside. It thrashes under them briefly and goes still.

Not a moment too soon, either; Arumat loses his balance, going to one knee beside the beast with spots swimming in front of his eyes.

"Hey!" Crowe says, grabbing his arm. "Hang in there."

"Made it this far," Arumat says, blinking until his vision clears. "Not giving up now." He clasps Crowe's wrist and lets Crowe haul him back to his feet.

"That's what I wanted to hear," Crowe says. He tucks his deactivated blade into its holster at the small of his back. "That was a pretty neat trick with the rock."

"Thanks," Arumat says. He hands Crowe's other blade back. "You carry a spare blade with you all the time?"

Crowe grins. "It's not a spare," he says. "I fight two-handed."

"That I have to see," Arumat says before he can help himself.

"Sure," Crowe says. He looks pleased. "We can use the Aquila's battle simulator."

It's reminder enough. "Once we get to the Aquila," Arumat says. "Let's go."

They reach the wreckage of Arumat's escape pod without further incident, for a miracle. The forest moss is already starting to grow over the exposed surfaces. Arumat thinks for a moment of stopping, seeing if there's anything left in the wreck that he can salvage, but he decides it's not worth the effort. Anything still there will be in such bad shape it'll be easier to replace than repair.

"We're close now?" he asks as they leave the pod behind, coming out of the forest and onto a plain. The mist is threatening to condense back into rain, and it's not likely to get much lighter.

"We're here," Crowe says, and the cloaking on his ship shuts off in front of them.

The Aquila's a lean, elegant ship, built like a scouter; she doesn't carry enough armament for Arumat's taste, but she looks like she'd handle well with a good pilot at her helm. She has a hatch open on their side, and a narrow ramp extended to greet them.

Arumat follows Crowe up the ramp, boots clanging hollowly on the metal, and ducks out of habit as he steps through the hatch. The air inside is warm and dry, and has the comfortable, familiar smell of smoothly running electronics. Arumat takes a deep breath, and relief uncoils all the way through him.

"Welcome aboard," Crowe says, as the hatch hisses shut. "How does breakfast and a hot shower sound?"

"Perfect," Arumat says. "Lead the way."


End file.
